


i'll do whatever you say to me in the dark

by bookofleviathan



Category: The Hunger - Alma Katsu
Genre: Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Missing Scene, Praise Kink, Self-Hatred, Sexual Tension, allusions to past violence (non-graphic), james reed cries during sex, james reed has self-worth issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:27:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26852959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookofleviathan/pseuds/bookofleviathan
Summary: “It’s no trouble. To tell you the truth, I needed to get away for a bit. Get some fresh air, clear my head.”“I’ve been feeling rather the same way, of late.”(Another unspoken concurrence: I won’t ask you why if you promise not to ask the same of me.)“Oh, and it’s Charles. You can call me Charles.”“Charles,” Reed said, trying not to betray his racing heart. “James.”
Relationships: James Reed/Charles Stanton
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	i'll do whatever you say to me in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> A missing scene, set just after Stanton and Reed set up camp on their way to reach Lansford Hastings.

Keseberg didn’t have to go and say that. _What makes you think he’s gonna listen to you? Hell, nobody listens to you._ Reed knew it as well as anyone.

Perhaps this was why he was surprised to see Stanton volunteer to go with him.

More than just volunteering, really, it had almost seemed like Stanton came to his defense. Reed couldn’t help but wonder what Stanton hoped to gain from this - he was a bachelor, a loner, and Reed had heard whispers about him ever since they left Independence. He had to have some kind of ulterior motive. Still, Stanton was personable enough. He made for good company on what was otherwise sure to have been a lonely and paranoid ride.

They had chosen a place to camp for the night, and Reed had gone out hunting. Stanton had built a fire and was sitting by its side, lost in thought, by the time Reed returned with his meager quarry. He’d only brought back a single rabbit, barely any meat on its bones, but Stanton lit up all the same. “Where’d you find that?”

“Lucky, I guess,” Reed said, face flushed. He fought the urge to rub at his hands, his face. “Found a spring down by those boulders, too. I’ll get water for the horses once I get this rabbit over the fire.”

“Here,” Stanton said, standing and reaching out to take the carcass from him. His hand brushed Reed’s, and Reed hoped that he didn’t flinch too conspicuously. “I’ll take care of that,” Stanton smiled. “Go ahead and get the water before it gets dark.”

Reed hiked back to the spring he’d come across on his hunting trip. He’d been lucky to notice the small stream of cold, clear water running from a crack in a rocky outcrop. The water moved too fast and the weakening light of the sunset was too dim for him to see his reflection. That was all well with him. He was not the sort of man who was interested in looking himself in the eye. Before filling his canteen, he washed his hands in the stream of water trickling out of the rock. Despite the suffocating August heat of the daytime, dusk brought with it the specter of autumn, an unwelcome reminder of how much of the trail lay ahead of them, and the water, sprung up from somewhere deep within the earth, was cold as frost. The chill of it bit at Reed’s hands, a satisfying, cleansing, almost burning kind of pain. He caught some of the water in his hands and splashed his face with it, hoping to burn the thought of Stanton’s hand brushing against his own from his mind.

He returned just as Stanton was pulling the rabbit from the fire. He allowed himself to feel relieved for a moment - the warm, comforting glow of the fire, the smell of game cooking after a day’s ride through a forest seemingly bereft of fauna, and, if he was honest with himself, the distance between the two of them and the rest of the party put him at ease.

The sun was mostly set, and their camp in the shadows of the trees had grown dark, so the two ate their dinner by firelight. The meat was tough and gamey, but it was fresh, and they savored it like it was their last meal.

(Neither of them acknowledged it, but both of them were thinking it: _It could well be._ )

After dinner, the companionable silence between them grew stranger and more distant by the minute, and it became clear that one of them would have to break it. Reed, eager to win this quiet battle, to prove himself, took the leap. “Thank you for offering to ride with me, Mr. Stanton. It can’t have been easy to sacrifice your own comfort just to watch my back out here in the woods.”

“It’s no trouble. To tell you the truth, I needed to get away for a bit. Get some fresh air, clear my head.”

“I’ve been feeling rather the same way, of late.”

(Another unspoken concurrence: _I won’t ask you why if you promise not to ask the same of me._ )

“Oh, and it’s Charles. You can call me Charles.”

“Charles,” Reed said, trying not to betray his racing heart. “James.”

“James,” Charles smiled, and _oh_ , Reed - James now, he supposed, if that was who Charles wanted him to be - couldn’t bear it. “It’s strange, James,” he continued, blissfully unaware of the way James was beginning to think of him. “Just the two of us out here, I don’t feel alone. Not like I did back there, even with everyone else around.”

“I could say the same,” James responded, casting his eyes toward the fire. Even unblinking in the waves of heat emanating from the flames, it didn’t hurt the way it hurt to look at Charles. He was weak, he knew it. Charles would hurt him and he would allow it. Relish it, even. Charles put a hand on his shoulder, and he jumped, but kept his eyes fixed on the campfire.

That is, until Charles, his voice lower and softer now, said, “Look at me.”

He was so close now, James had half a mind to throw himself on the pyre just to avoid burning up in the heat of Charles’ gaze. But he looked. How could he not? Charles had asked it of him. “I don’t think you have to be alone, James. I don’t think either of us has to be alone.”

Charles leaned in and James braced himself for the hurt he knew was coming - _hit me, scratch, bite, wrap your hands round my neck, go on, do it, get it out of the way, get_ me _out of the way_ \- but gentle and chaste as anything, Charles ghosted his lips over James’ cheekbone and whispered in his ear. “Will you let me kiss you, James?”

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, no one had ever _asked_ before, only _taken_ , but here Charles was, hands on his shoulders and voice soft in his ear saying things like _please_ and _I want you_ and _you’re lovely_. James was frozen in place. He should say no. _God_ , he should say no, even if he didn’t _want_ to-

But Charles surprised him again, pulling back, though still resting his hands on James’ shoulders, a warm, comforting weight. “You don’t have to,” he stammered, “If you’re not- if you don’t want- we can forget this whole thing.”

James took a deep breath and spoke, voice quiet and hoarse but resolute. “I want it, Charles. Please.”

Charles’ lips parted, and he stared at James for a moment, incredulous and reverent, before moving in once more to finish what he’d started.

Edward McGee kissed furtively and feverishly, like he was running out of time; John Snyder with a sort of fury, more like being devoured than kissed, like it was a job to be done.

Charles Stanton kissed James Reed like he was something to be savored, glacially slow, asking, not taking. It was not a burning thing like James had expected, like all that he had known. Not the damnation he knew he deserved, no; not hellfire but sunlight.

Charles pulled back and, shameful as it may be, James _whimpered_. “I’ve got you,” Charles reassured, apparently just as shaken and out-of-breath as James. “Can I touch you,” he panted, “please?”

“Yes,” James breathed, and Charles’ mouth was on his again, his hands moving from James’ shoulders to undo his trousers. Charles stroked him, and James could barely breathe. He lay his head on Charles’ shoulder, and Charles turned his own head to press his cheek against James’, whispering into his ear again, things that James couldn’t accept, didn’t _deserve_ -

But oh, how easy it would be to make believe that this string of beautiful falsehoods - _you’re a good man, James, I’ve looked at you, thought about you for months, it’s not fair the things they say to you_ \- were words that could ever be said to him outside the context of this lie, this game they were playing, both of them pretending James was someone who could be loved. James spilled over in his excitement - misguided hope, even, a hope he’d vowed never to allow himself again - at the lies Charles whispered to him, and wept in shame.

“James?” Charles said, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“Go ahead,” James choked out. “Use me. Get it over with.”

“No,” Charles snapped. “No. What- why would you think- is that all this is to you?”

“Is it any more to you? I know what you want, Stanton. Just take it.”

“You- you think I’m _unsatisfied?_ You’ve given me more than I could have hoped for, James. What more is there to take?”

“Your own pleasure,” James scoffed, “as if you wanted anything more than that.”

“I wanted _you_ , James. I still do. But I won’t hurt you. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.” Charles’ voice was breaking now. “Do you really think so little of me?”

James rubbed at his face, sighing. “It’s all anyone’s wanted from me. Their own satisfaction,” he said. “I’ve learned not to hope for more than that.”

“If you’ll allow me, James,” Charles said, laying a hand on his shoulder again, “I’ll be better than that. For you. But only if you want me to.”

James looked into Charles’ eyes again, and saw only sincerity. He could no longer bring himself to resent the man. “I do, Charles,” he whispered, “I want you to.”

In the morning, James woke, huddled in his sack with Charles’ arms around him, the remnants of the fire still clinging to life and radiating warmth, and for the first time in a long time, maybe ever, even just for a moment, he felt safe.

**Author's Note:**

> I read the novel The Hunger a year ago and haven't stopped thinking about it since. Sorry, Alma - nothing about it needs fixing, I'm just pathetic and gay and can leave no metaphorical homoerotic stone unturned.
> 
> Title from "Candles" by Daughter.


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